Into the white-knuckle blue

July 12, 2009

There's been a lot of scary news recently. Where to begin? The specter of North Korean mushroom clouds, the busted auto industry, healthy people getting knocked off by airborne viruses, the violent uprisings in almost every country that starts with "I," and, hello, the alert from the Federal Emergency Management Agency on national lightning safety awareness week, warning that summer is peak season for getting zapped into the hereafter by lightning and, "note bene, that 11 Americans have already been done in by Thor this year. For me, though, the number-one story that made me want to crawl under the covers and whimper was the crash of that Air France Airbus en route from Rio to Paris. I know. I know. Statistically, air travel is so safe! You have a far greater chance of getting killed driving to work (on the Schuylkill, for sure, but that is not a fair comparison), or at work (if you defuse land mines for a living), or having sex (if three of your arteries are blocked and you met your love interest through Craigslist under the heading "nothing ventured, nothing gained"). I'm kidding, of course. About the land mines. Rationally, there really is no good reason to be afraid to fly, although everyone is entitled to one good phobia. Accidents are rare. Every day, millions of people buckle in, secure their tray tables, and ignore the flight attendant's directives to check for the nearest exits because they believe that they are in capable hands, on board a thoroughly inspected and impeccably maintained machine, and that nothing bad - or fatal - is going to happen. Most of the time those assumptions are correct. Except when they're not. And then ... In case your imagination fails you, check your memory image bank from movies like "Castaway" or "Alive" and recall the massive jet-fuel tanks exploding, and bodies sucked out into the frigid air at 50,000 feet, and fiery wreckage raining down to earth. Of all the real-life horrors that occur practically every day, what is it about a plane crash that stirs up so much anxiety? What makes this kind of disaster seem so much more personally threatening than others that - actuarially speaking - are far more likely to befall the average human living prudently in Philadelphia? Eat blueberries and kale and you won't get cancer. Wear your seat belt, stay awake, and don't text your angry teenager on your cell while driving and you won't wrap your car around a tree trunk and impale yourself on the gearshift. On the other end of the spectrum - nuclear attack by megalomaniacs halfway across the world, for instance - you can trust that in the end (and preferably long before that) sanity will prevail. When 228 passengers and crew die in a plane crash, though, the thought of their helplessness is simply terrifying. As soon as the first reports came in on June 1 that Air France Flight 447 had lost contact with air-traffic control, I wanted to believe that - like the plane that landed in the Hudson River last winter - the pilot had found a way to gently skid along the ocean and just float there until the rescue crews arrived. But investigators who have looked at the bodies and hundreds of pieces of debris from Flight 447 say that the plane probably broke up when it crashed belly-first into the ocean. The violence of the impact tore everyone's clothes off. People, still strapped into their seats, had broken hips and legs. I know this because I have read every word that has been printed about this accident since the instruments emitted their last signals 400 miles northeast of the Fernando de Noronha islands. I've gone online and clicked on the photos showing scuba divers towing in pieces of fuselage, and an oxygen mask floating in the water, and body bags being rolled out onto the tarmac in Recife. And still, I keep reading. Me, the wimp who can't stand to watch even the previews of horror movies. The difference is that those films are supposed to be entertaining. We all take risks to get through our days, but usually, fewer stupid ones as we get older. Getting into an aluminum tube carrying 150 tons of people, and fuel, and rolling duffel bags, and allowing total strangers with labor grievances to miraculously fly the hulking thing through thin air may be one the biggest exceptions. For my own vacation flight this summer, I planned to rely on a heavy dose of denial that what I was about to do wouldn't kill me. That, and a few milligrams of Ativan. Melissa Dribben is a columnist for Philadelphia Inquirer. Readers may write to her at the Philadelphia Inquirer, P.O. Box 8263, Philadelphia, Pa. 19101, or send e-mail to mdribbenphillynews.com. Leonard Pitts is on vacation and will return July 22.